


Danse Macabre

by Owenjones



Series: Good Omens One Shots [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: COVID-19, Hurt/Comfort, In lockdown, M/M, Middle Ages, Modern Day, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Black Death, The plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owenjones/pseuds/Owenjones
Summary: Two celestial beings stuck in lockdown from COVID-19 reflect on the time when the capital-A Arrangement began.If there’s one thing you learn by living as an immortal, it’s that history repeats itself.When quarantines and curfews were ordered, when confusion and uncertainty became normal, when hospitals were overfilled and people refused to listen to safety measures, Aziraphale and Crowley were not nearly as shocked as everyone else in the world. It was hardly the first time that this exact show had played out right in front of their eyes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens One Shots [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453525
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for pandemics, descriptions of the bubonic plague, discussion of Covid.
> 
> I wanted to write something kind of sad. I was inspired by the amazing novel The Doomsday Book by Connie Willis, which I've been reading to help cope with covid

If there’s one thing you learn by living as an immortal, it’s that history repeats itself. 

When quarantines and curfews were ordered, when confusion and uncertainty became normal, when hospitals were overfilled and people refused to listen to safety measures, Aziraphale and Crowley were not nearly as shocked as everyone else in the world. It was hardly the first time that this exact show had played out right in front of their eyes. 

Crowley looked out through the blinds of the bookshop at the central London streets, eerily empty except for the few bits of litter blowing in the wind. But he was easily dragged away from the unsettling view with a familiar aroma. 

“Mmm,” he said as Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen with a loaf of freshly-baked bread, “Smells like home.”

Aziraphale glared at him, “It’s not _that_ burnt, is it?”

“Angel. It looks like you threw it into a patch of hellfire,” he said. Before Aziraphale could feel disheartened with his amateur baking attempt, Crowley added, “Cut me a slice.”

“Baking bread is quite difficult.” As he set the loaf on the table and pulled out a bread knife, Aziraphale added, “I know what you’re going to say. Why don’t I miracle it to be just right?”

“I know how you would respond to that. It’s more fun to do it the proper way.” 

“And I would be absolutely right to say so. Top up?”

“Yeah,” Crowley thrust his wine glass out to get a gentle refill, at the same time receiving a rather smoky piece of bread which he politely took a bite of and made an appropriately appreciative face.

“I ought to bring over some of my records,” Crowley vaguely gestured to the old gramophone chugging along with a classical symphony at the side of the room, “Get something a bit newer to your ears.”

“You don’t like Beethoven?” 

“Eh, was a bit of a prick.” 

Aziraphale conceded the point, then looked over to the game board set up on the table, “Did you make your move?”

Crowley nodded, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine as Aziraphale sat back in front of his side of the chessboard. 

Back in the days when the forces of Heaven and Hell had been much more active on the surface of the Earth, Aziraphale and Crowley were both pawns in their own right. Mucking about in all the wettest parts of England, feet dragging heavy boots through the mud and grime in the frontlines of whatever complicated plans the head of their sides were playing out. 

It’s strange how important it all felt at the time. 

***

The Dark Ages. No time in history was worse than the Dark Ages. However, it didn’t start out being the worst time ever. On the contrary, it was a time of hope and conquest. After the fall of the Roman Empire, a new era began. Each side of the long-battling celestial forces decided it was time to make progress in the Fight Against the Enemy. Agents on the ground were given proper gear and clear objectives. Updates from head office always contained the words Smashing Success and described the enemy as In Shambles. Patriotic fervor filled each demon and angel as they carried about their business on the Earth.

This fell apart when the two pawns on either side encountered one another. Like the pawns on the chessboard, meeting face-to-face led to a strange sort of stand-off that didn’t benefit either side but didn’t harm them either. All it was, was awkward.

Crowley flicked the visor of his helmet down and stormed away from the infuriating angel. “What is he even doing out here…” he grumbled to himself, “Acting all high-and-mighty. _Oh, they’d check!”_

“Asking me to lie to my superiors? Who does he think he is?” Aziraphale said while tugging his furs closer around himself, “Who does he think I am?” 

As it turns out, this sort of progress is untenable. The strict orders began to wind down, missions began to dwindle. Soon after, Aziraphale retired his knight’s armor and settled in a fancy Cluniac monastery. These were the sort that quickly grew outdated at the time--the clergy tended to promote monastic asceticism instead. I.e. abstaining from all the comfy bits of Earthly life that Aziraphale had grown used to. Thus, as the years went by, he made sure his monastery remained un-reformed. 

Many years passed from his last meeting with the Opposition, many years since Crowley attempted to tempt him into treachery. In this time, Aziraphale managed the extravagant library on the monastery grounds and indulged himself in fine clothes, food, and drink. He hid away from all the celestial politics, preferring instead to enjoy himself as much as he could. 

What he didn’t know was that the bubble he lived in was going to pop. 

***

Humans were amazing, Aziraphale always believed that. 

In 1348, Pestilence made its appearance in southern England, stronger than ever before, sweeping across the land and killing everyone who stepped in its way. No man, woman, or child was safe from the plague. 

His faith couldn’t help but feel shaken at the sights he saw. There was far too much blood, the horrifying smells of infection, and the swelling of the sick skin as their bodies grew too overwhelmed to continue on. 

Friars, priests, and monks alike, all supposed men of God, ran from their suffering parishioners and their duty to make sure the people were comforted and received into heaven. 

It was up to him, then, to give dozens their final rites, listen to their confessions, and finally bury them in the church’s consecrated ground. He held their hands and prayed with them, pleading for God to stop, to forgive them for whatever sin may have brought this upon them. 

Floods, smitings, plagues. Humans screamed as their life was snuffed out as easily as the flame of a candle. Locusts, fires, water turning to blood, slaughtering the firstborn. 

What sin could justify this?

Aziraphale held their hands and cried with them while their fevers shot up and their skin turned blue. He hardly had time to sit, as he was constantly dashing around to receive confessions and give blessings. 

_What sin could justify this?_

***

In merely a few weeks’ time, Aziraphale found himself alone. Everyone who could, had run, and everyone who couldn’t had been buried. He sank to his knees on the freshly upturned ground. The normally bustling village was deathly silent. No more music, no more lights or festivals or markets. Nothing.

It seemed even the animals had run. Even the stars had run. The night was so dark, it felt as though the sun would never return. 

And perhaps it wouldn’t. The world was irrevocably changed, the land and people scarred by death. Only God knew what was to happen next.

While he was still motionless in the churchyard, there was the sound of footsteps scraping through the slushy mud in the village road. Someone was walking quickly and stopping every once in a while, likely looking for all the people. Finally, the steps came to a halt.

“Brother,” Aziraphale heard the figure call out a good distance behind him, “How many are sick?”

Not taking his eyes off the ground, he mumbled, “They’re all dead.”

“Shit.” 

Aziraphale thought about the last one. How scared she had looked while the life drained from her body. 

“Have you any symptoms?” The voice called out, slightly muffled.

He thought about how the ones taking care of their families were the first to fall, while those who had run away were the ones with the fighting chance. The world congratulating cowardice and punishing virtue. 

“Have you any buboes? Fever? Anything?”

“Sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale turned around, “You don’t have to worry about me, dear. I won’t catch it.”

He saw a figure shrouded in black, with a horrible bird mask covering their face. One of the plague doctors that swept from place to place, trying and failing to contain the disease. They tilted their head, “Aziraphale...?”

He suddenly realized why the figure was shouting from such a distance. Demons could not step onto consecrated ground. 

“C-Crowley?”

The figure fumbled with the mask until it lowered, revealing familiar golden eyes, with new heavy bags under them. Crowley’s hair was wild and tangled and full of grime, and his face held a gaunt look to it. 

Aziraphale didn’t look much better--every part of him was covered in dirt and his hair was allowed to grow longer than normal. He stumbled through the mud to the front of the church. 

They stared at one another. Each of them was a mess. Golden eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t--” Crowley began shakily, “You have to believe me--”

Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley, halting the thought in place. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter in the slightest. What mattered was he finally had someone he knew wouldn’t succumb to the plague. Crowley melted into the touch, tears falling freely over Aziraphale’s cassock and clutching onto his shoulders like a lifeline.

It felt as though they embraced for about as long as they were apart. Like time had stopped. 

“Let’s…” Aziraphale began, “Fire. Warmth. Tea.”

Crowley pulled away and nodded, rubbing away the lines of tears with his sleeve. He was led to one of the abandoned houses where Aziraphale began stoking the hearth. After a moment, the angel started sniffing the air.

Crowley gestured to the mask in his hand, “Vinegar. Helps with the, you know, miasma.” 

Aziraphale nodded, put a kettle over the fire, and settled down on the dusty floor with a sigh.

“D’you believe all that they say?” Crowley sniffled and sat down a few feet from him, “That it’s the End?” 

“Have they been saying that?”

“I’ve traveled around a bit. This isn’t the first ghost town I’ve come across. And I’ve asked around when I could. They say Italy, France, China, Persia, Egypt… All just as bad as this. Worse than--worse than anything I’ve seen.”

Aziraphale stared into the fire.

“And innocent people being massacred when they’re blamed for it. Oh, Satan… I tried to save people, I really did. But this disease…”

The kettle began to steam.

“What kind of a God--”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. 

“What kind of a God would do this?” Crowley persevered, though his voice was shaky, “Merciful? Give me a break. Sadistic, more like.”

“Crowley.” He said, more sternly. Crowley shut his mouth and started restlessly tapping his foot. 

Aziraphale painstakingly reached for the kettle, but Crowley intercepted him. He prepared the tea, for it felt that if his fidgeting hands had nothing to do he would die.

He handed the cup over to Aziraphale, who took it but did not drink. 

“Don’t tell me you’re not thinking the same thing,” Crowley said.

“I’m not.”

He began fidgeting again, rubbing his hands together to warm them by the fire, “I don’t suppose you had much luck calling in help. Y’know, from your side.”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Ineffability, they said. All according to plan…” 

Crowley let out a heavy breath, “At least my lot has the decency to say they don’t care about human life.”

After a moment, Aziraphale blinked, “Decency?”

“Y’know. Instead of pretending to care. Giving lip service about ‘oh, it’s a real shame that this is how it must be,’ but in the end, they feel the same way about humanity as Beelzebub does.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

The fire in the hearth flickered away, hardly doing anything to fight back the endless chill. 

“What am I going to do without this world?” Aziraphale said, his face suddenly scrunching up with sobs.

“Hey,” Crowley reached over to rub his back, “Hey, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale shot him a look between his weeps.

“Well, maybe it’s not okay,” Crowley amended, “But for what it’s worth, I’m not sure I believe it’s The End. Not yet, at least. I think Hell would be a lot more frantic if it were, but they’re going about like business as usual. Heaven too, I bet.”

He let out a fresh wave of tears and nodded. 

“It’s not the end, Angel. It’s just… a very bad time, I think. Now drink up your tea. When was the last time you slept?”

“Never,” Aziraphale said.

They exchanged shocked looks to one another. 

“You never sleep?”

“You do?”

“Not in a while I haven’t. Not since the plague began.”

Aziraphale picked himself up, “Then you must rest--”

“Can’t. I’ve tried.”

“Nonsense,” he patted Crowley on the shoulder and sniffled, “Come over to the bed.” He led him over to the straw mattress in the corner of the room. When Crowley lay down, Aziraphale knelt on the ground next to it, reaching out to take his hand. The same pose he had been in for most of the past week, at least in between the time he spent fetching water, poking fires, and digging graves. 

Crowley smiled gratefully and squeezed his hand before drifting off. The exhaustion plain on his face, even in unconsciousness. Aziraphale began to pray, and soon enough his tired corporation slipped into a sort of sleep as well. 

***

They rested in the hut somberly and undreaming until dawn began to break, at which point Crowley lifted himself off the ground and brushed off his clothes. The fire had dwindled down to nothing but a few embers and nature’s cruel cold had crept into their bones. He began strapping the mask back on before Aziraphale’s eyes flickered open and he asked, “What are you doing?”

“It was nice to catch up,” he said as though they had met casually for drinks, “I better be off to see to the next village.”

“The bells stopped ringing a few days ago,” Aziraphale said hoarsely, “If there’s anyone left, they may be beyond saving.”

Crowley’s face was unreadable under the mask, but his demeanor wilted ever so slightly, “Well, I’ll do what I can.”

“You can’t give them their last rites,” Aziraphale said distantly, “Nor can you bury them.”

“No, I can’t,” Crowley said, “I can’t… but you can.”

“So you intend to leave people unshriven?” Aziraphale said, standing up and brushing himself off, not quite catching on to the idea that was percolating in Crowley’s head.

“If this grand plan is ineffable and God’s plan and everything, then making sure people get as much medical care as they can is certainly quite dastardly, isn’t it?”

“I--well,”

“I’ve seen people recover. Very, very rarely, but it has happened.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’ve caused it to happen,” he said, now getting energetic all of a sudden and pacing dust clouds around the hut, “Me. Sitting by someone and making them drink soup until they recover. Making sure the fire is lit and they’re clean and comfortable and everything.” 

Crowley stopped suddenly, “My problem is when that doesn’t happen. When they just get worse and worse until…”

“Yes…”

“It’d be a real shame for Hell’s part, a real shame if some holy being were to follow me and lay the people to rest. You know, in the proper way. Celestial politics aside, these people don’t deserve this.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“I know, I know. But you wouldn’t have to lie. You’d be thwarting me, you really would. And with all this death going on, I think our sides are too busy processing people into the afterlife to really take a look at what’s happening here.”

“I don’t…”

“It’d just be a temporary arrangement--just until all this mess is over and then we can go back to being enemies,” Crowley reached out to offer a shaky hand, “Please.”

Aziraphale thought about himself single-handedly taking care of a sick village. It was too much, too much to do. And Crowley understood. He was perhaps the only one who did.

Aziraphale took his outstretched hand into his own, nodding. 

Each of them felt all at once relieved and determined. The steady figure by their sides comforted them, a fellow immortal, even if they were technically enemies. The nippy air bit at their faces when they left the hut, but the sun shone through it all. Aziraphale, still clutching onto the bony hand, pointed out where the nearest village rested and they began the trek in that direction. 

***

“Check,” Aziraphale put down his bishop in a threatening place. He looked up to his opponent, to find him looking out the window despondently, once again, “Crowley?”

“Mm?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” He turned back to the chessboard.

“You don’t usually go down without a fight.”

He nodded absently, continuing to search for the next best move, his hand floating over a few pieces. 

Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile and reached across the table to cup a hand around his cheek, “You’re tired.”

Crowley sighed, leaning into the touch, “You got me. I spent all last night scrolling through twitter.”

“Twitter?”

“It’s a website, Angel. Where everyone gets their news from nowadays.”

“Ah.”

“Things are looking pretty bleak. Cases are spiking again.”

“I know.” 

“Did you hear about the long-term effects? It’s insane. Even the people that survive--”

“I know.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just--”

Aziraphale stood, and gestured for Crowley to follow him to the couch, where he sat. Crowley lay down on the well-worn and comfy cushions, resting his head on Aziraphale’s lap. 

Crowley sighed, feeling himself sink into his long-needed rest.

“It’s a bad time, undeniably,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, “But it’s not the end.”

“As it turns out, even Armageddon isn’t the end.”

“Apparently not. Now, go to sleep. I promise you, the world will still be here by the time you wake up. I’ll personally make sure of it.”

“Mm.” Crowley said, “Thank you, Angel.”

Soon enough, he was asleep. Aziraphale felt the pull to sleep too, but only slightly. Instead, he held still and listened to the sound of Crowley’s breathing, wondering when things would settle down.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay one last thing, I know that the bird plague masks were from the renaissance rather than the middle ages. But I liked the idea of Crowley wearing one to cover his eyes, so I went with something a bit ahistorical. Apologies to any historians or pedants.
> 
> Anyway, everyone take care <3


End file.
